


not I for an angel

by howlikeagod



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Bastardizing Shakespeare, Character Tags To Be Added - Freeform, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Miscommunication, Much Ado About Nothing, Other, egregious footnotes, have you ever looked at a piece of media and thought ''but what if it was a queer miracle play''?, plots and capers, which is a pre-existing tag hell yes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 11:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19789507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlikeagod/pseuds/howlikeagod
Summary: A postponed Armageddon and a new assignment have brought Crowley and Aziraphale closer—and further apart—than ever. Newt and Anathema get tempted; Heaven and Hell play chess; the kids, it turns out, are alright.Or: theMuch Ado About NothingAU absolutely no one asked for.





	not I for an angel

_Eleven Years Ago_

“Pull the other one.”

“I’m _serious._ ”

“You’re not. This is never the Great bloody Plan, what about the whole Armageddon… thing?”

“I told you, I have it from a reputable source. Wars are not won all at once, you know. They’re won in battles. The tiniest skirmish can mean the difference between—”

“But this isn’t a _skirmish,_ angel, it’s Tuesday.”

“For you and I, maybe. But the two of us are the only ones who have been doing this for long enough to understand them. For… for the others, they see it all like a big chess board, and the right pieces have to go on the right side or none of it will work.”

“And your lot want this—”

“It isn’t just my lot.”

“I haven’t heard a ble _ssss_ ed thing about it.”

“There’s no need to be tetchy.”

“ _Tetchy?_ I’ll show you tetchy—”

_Now_

“I’m not cheating on you,” Anathema said.

Newton Pulsifer, Witchfinder Private and recent fiancé of a witch, blinked. The dark, serious eyes of the very witch in question stared back without stooping to such time-wasting activities as blinking.

“Er,” said Newt. “Thank you?”

A note on Anathema Device’s upbringing, for those who have only just arrived in our tale. 

There are moments in history wherein an individual of average breeding and good sense—or folly—by sheer happenstance makes a choice that yields them gratuitous amounts of money in exchange for very little day-to-day work. A lucky investment, an appearance at the right place and right time. For the past four hundred years, the Device family has conveniently capitalized on every single one of these moments.[1]

The primary result of this familial quirk was to make the Devices, to use a term favored among economists, filthy stinking rich.

The secondary result was unwanted attention. Not the kind of unwanted attention that requires armed bodyguards, a talent for spotting incoming paparazzos at twenty yards, and/or a good right hook, mind.[2] Rather, these were attentions of the occult and ethereal persuasions.

Many families like Anathema’s accumulate exponentially more _stuff_ than their genetic numbers can handle the upkeep of,[3] and therefore hire help. The Devices were no exception. This is closely related to the above secondary result, though the reader will not be asked to indulge yet more exposition on the matter.

“I’m telling you this because the forces of heaven and hell are conspiring to manipulate my life in a bid for my immortal soul.”

“Wh—” Newt began to develop a morbid pallor, as he often did in response to someone telling him something he was not prepared to hear.

“That part isn’t new,” Anathema continued.

“It’s not—?”

“What changed is who’s doing the conspiring, and the fact that it’s impacting the people I love.”

“Oh, dear. Is your mother safe?”

“What? Yes, she’s fine.” Anathema put her hands on either side of Newton’s perspiring face. “I was talking about you.”

“Ah,” Newt said weakly. “Well, that’s alright then.”

_Two Days Earlier_

“Aye, lass, we dinnae find any witches this time around, but we’re closer than ever before, I can feel it.”

“Right.” Anathema nodded encouragingly. “One of these days, I’m sure you’ll sneak right up on a witch when they least expect it.”[4]

“They’re closer than you think,” Shadwell said with a sternly raised eyebrow. “The nearest witch could easily keep herself hidden from ye even when lookin’ ye right in the eye.”

“That would be impressive,” Anathema replied.

Private Pulsifer stifled a startled giggle behind his hand, disguising the noise as a cough.

“You’re not falling ill, lad?” Shadwell rounded on Newton suspiciously.

“You know, Sergeant, I think I just might be.” His eyes met Anathema’s over Shadwell’s shoulder. “I may need to rest for a while. Take a break from active service, maybe. If that’s alright.”

“And what about our resident friar-gardener-librarian?” interrupted a lazy voice. “Or whatever it is he’s doing these days. He picks up new hobbies like a new hairstyle, not that he’s _ever_ changed his hair.”

“Who?” Shadwell asked, turning to the voice.

Draped over a wicker patio chair as if his limbs had rather more joints than a human body would normally accommodate, eyes hidden from the absent afternoon sun by dark glasses, Crowley raised his can of La Croix in greeting. He must have been there all along, though no one could remember his presence going back more than a few seconds.

“He means Mr. Fell,” Anathema explained.

_“Who?”_ repeated Shadwell.

“The,” Newt cleared his throat; his eyes darted between the more respectable company present. He leaned in toward Shadwell’s ear and muttered— 

“Ah, the southern pansy. Aye, he’s back. Him and all the books he dragged with him, too. Took up every inch of space we had in the car, knew I should have told him—”

“To stay in London?” said Crowley with a grin just a bit too wide for a human face, not that anyone but Anathema noticed. “Would have done us all a favor then, though I have to respect the waste of petrol.”

“Ignore him,” Anathema said. “He and Mr. Fell have a long-standing… rivalry. A friendly one. They like to match wits.”

“Well,” Crowley rolled the word around his mouth like a swig of wine to someone who makes a hobby of pretending different wines in the same general class of quality are at all discernible from one another. “That’s only when he can _find_ his. Last time I saw the poor bastard, he’d misplaced all but one of his wits and needed the last to look for his glasses.”

“Ha,” Newt replied with a noise that was not quite a laugh, in an attempt to be helpful. He couldn’t quite remember who the man in the chair was, though he’d seen him around Jasmine Estate before—an old family friend, Anathema had said?

“They were on his head,” Crowley added.

“The… wits, or the glasses?”

“I think,” Anathema handed Crowley a fresh La Croix before he could answer, “you should lie down, Private Pulsifer. Since you’re getting sick.”

A significant glance passed between Anathema and Newt—or, rather, Anathema sent one his way and he fumbled with it for several seconds before a miraculous save.

“Right! Er, _ahuh,_ ” he said, pitifully. “Permission to be, ah, excused, Sergeant?”

“Granted, lad. You’ll need all your strength about ye in the coming days. There’s phenomenies, phenomenical things, strange happenings afoot, mark my words. I tell ye, just last week—”

“Here comes Mr. Fell!” said Anathema brightly. “I’m sure he wants to hear all about it, Sergeant Shadwell.”

Shadwell grunted unhappily. Footsteps and a bright, friendly _Halloo!_ announced an arrival from around the corner of the main house. Shadwell grunted again, even less happily.

He donned his shapeless hat and muttered, “I’m off,” just as Aziraphale appeared on the edge of the garden.

“Well! Wasn’t that a lovely trip, hm? I’ve just finished putting the new books away. I certainly hope they get along with the old ones.”

“I’ll check in on their energies tomorrow,” Anathema promised as she gently herded Newton into the house and followed behind.

“And I must thank you again for allowing me to tag along, Sergeant,” Aziraphale continued. Shadwell didn’t respond, as he was already halfway down the block, urgently on his way to the bus stop. “It isn’t every day I can just hitch a ride into London, you know.”

“It isn’t every day you get to watch someone prattle on to himself, either,” Crowley drawled. “Don’t you usually save that for alone time with your books?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale straightened his collar, adjusted his bow tie, and turned to face the only companion left on the porch. “You old serpent. Still up to your wiles, then?”

“If I weren’t, you’d be out of a job, wouldn’t you? I’m not going anywhere while there’s still so much thwarting to thwart.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale raised a pale eyebrow in a subtle quirk he was quite proud of perfecting, though it had been a while since he’d needed it. It doesn’t do to get out of practice. “I’m certain you’ve sewn unfathomable chaos in the time I’ve been gone. What, is the dear girl’s telly on the fritz? Tell me you haven’t made her bread go stale, my God.”

“As if you would know, angel. Abandoning your charge to pop over to London town for a third copy of _Don Quixote,_ did we? I’m sure Head Office will be delighted by the use of resources.”

“Oh, just as yours would be impressed to know you’ve dropped that carefully-crafted disguise entirely?” Aziraphale put one soft hand up sternly when Crowley opened his sharp mouth for a no-doubt unending stream of rebuttals. “Enough, please. I’ve had a rather long day, so if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Crowley said. With a flick of one hand, he pushed his dark glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose and looked up at Aziraphale with serpentine eyes, rich and deep gold and ancient. “As ever.”

“I—” Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open in a soft, affronted O. He was cut off from saying—whatever it is he would have said, he was certain it would have been scathing—by Anathema’s reappearance.

“Welcome back, by the way,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

“Thank you, dear girl.” He returned the gesture. “Anything new around the homestead?”

“Actually, yes. I’m throwing a party later, sort of. It’s for some local kids.”

Crowley rolled his head back against the chair and groaned, long and dramatic.

“They managed to convince you to host their little Halloween shindig?”

“It’s not Halloween,” Anathema corrected. “It’s a masquerade. One of them read about it in a book and none of their parents wanted to host—” 

“For good reason! They’ll burn the whole estate down.”

“I would have thought you’d approve of such behavior,” said Aziraphale, employing his eyebrow again.

“Not when I have to live in it,” Crowley hissed. “Do you know how dreary it is in—” He glanced at Anathema, who looked back with a practiced show of an innocent smile and blissfully ignorant blink. “Where I’m from? I was just getting used to all this. Creature comforts, angel.”

“Children are a blessing from the Almighty,” Aziraphale said with a serene sanctimoniousness that made Crowley wish he could still shed his skin.

He threw his hands in the air, knocked back the last of his second La Croix, and said, “I need something stronger.”[5]

As Crowley disappeared into the house, Aziraphale seemed visibly ruffled. If she really concentrated, Anathema could see his wings. Not the whole effect, of course, but their general outline; normally they hung softly behind his shoulders, two downy presences that had been a comfort to her as a child well before she’d known what they were. Now they were raised, the arcs of them above his head and the pinions extended. 

“How do you feel about Newt?” she asked, hoping to lower his hackles. Not that she actually cared about getting a guardian’s approval of her relationships nor ever had, but the resident angel and demon on her shoulders had a habit of getting each other _so_ riled up.

“Oh, Private Pulsifer? He’s… certainly eager.” He gave Anathema a conspiratorial smile. “I presume he’ll be nearly as effective at finding witches as his superior officer.”

“A lot more, actually,” she said.

“Oh? Is he onto you, dear? I can send him away, just say the word—”

Anathema quickly reached out a deft hand to cover Aziraphale’s, which he had raised in preparation for the snap of a tidy miracle.

“No. Thank you.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I prefer him where he is.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am, yes.”

She looked at him intently. He turned, mouth parted in preparation to make a pleasant remark about the weather,[6] the garden,[7] or the books,[8] when he caught the intensity of her gaze.

Anathema had been an intense, serious girl who grew into an intense, serious woman. Aziraphale had never quite known what to do with her, though he’d eventually discovered companionable silence whilst they both read in the library or strolled in the garden did more for his endearing himself to her (and for his poor, celestial nerves) than overt attempts at mentorship.[9]

Yet, for all that, he felt there might be more to this stare.

“Are you quite alright?”

“I’m dating Newt.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale felt the sound had not quite done the trick, so he tried again. _“Ah._ A-ha.”

“He’s sweet, and he listens to me, and I like his hair,” she listed. Aziraphale admired her pragmatism.

“I admire your pragmatism,” he said. He had little more to offer.

“You don’t like him.”

It was not a question. Anathema sounded disappointed and a touch disapproving, which he thought uncalled for. She’d brought the boy up in the first place, after all, and Aziraphale felt he was doing a bang-up job keeping his opinions on the matter to himself. There _is_ such a thing as tact.

“I,” Aziraphale said, “have a deep love and respect for everyone upon this Earth, as they were crafted in the Almighty’s image.”

“You think he’s a loser.”

“I think you could do _better._ ” Aziraphale did not whine. Angels are above such things.[10] “What about that nice girl, the one who runs the soup kitchen across from the church? I think she—”

“She’s engaged.”

“—that is, if you have to have a… a dalliance with anyone, which, really, must you? For all the effort—”

“I wouldn’t call this a ‘dalliance’.”

“And you know how easily one might be _swayed_ and _tempted_ in matters of the heart, my dear. You’re so very sensible, I’d hate to see—”

“Aziraphale.” Anathema took a step closer, well into what she had once referred to as the ‘personal bubble.’ “I’m not a kid anymore. I can make my own decisions.”

Aziraphale sniffed. He folded his hands in front of himself, opened his mouth, closed it again, fiddled with his signet ring, and finally said:

“As your _guardian—_ ”

“Aziraphale…”

“It is and always has been my role to help you grow. To leave the nest someday, as it were. Not—not that—don’t let the wings fool you, I haven’t been nesting in your childhood home—Anyway.” He sighed. “I suppose I can hardly object to the fact that you’ve matured into a young woman who makes her own decisions.”

_That was easier than I expected,_ Anathema thought.

Then, Aziraphale opened his mouth again. “ _But—”_

“Here it is.”

“He’s part of the Witchfinder Army _. And_ still only a Private.”

Anathema stared.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You’d prefer it… if he were _better_ at hunting and killing witches?”

“Well.” Aziraphale pursed his lips, tilting his head to one side and then the other. “There is something to be said for a man with prospects. Opportunities for advancement, you know.”

“Welcome home, Aziraphale,” Anathema said with a tight smile.[11] “I’m going to start setting up for the party.”

“Oh, do you need a hand?” he called after her.

“No, thanks,” she said. There might have been an addendum added after, but the door shut behind her and Aziraphale didn’t quite catch it.

Then he stood alone in the serenity of the front garden. It had been a boisterous day, all told. He looked forward to retiring with one of his new old books. It really was lovely, though, out here—much better now that he had handed off most of his former gardening duties. It would have been better in the daylight, though; the sun must have gotten tired of waiting for the clouds to get out of the way and begun wandering home, for the quality of light around him was nearly dusky. Come to think of it, there were thicker clouds rolling in from the east than had seemed likely just moments ago. Aziraphale squinted.

A crackle of imminent lightning tickled the back of the angel’s neck, and then the sky broke open.

“Do you think they’re talking about me out there? I know she and Mr. Fell are close, but he doesn’t know—I mean, didn’t, I mean, I _thought_ he didn’t but maybe—”

Newt had a habit, Crowley had fast learned in his limited interactions with the young witchfinder, of cutting himself off mid-sentence. It was for this reason that Crowley noticed nothing amiss about his sudden silence until after he had grabbed himself a drink. The refrigerator door began its arc toward the closed position, then froze midway. Crowley began his own turn to face young Pulsifer, and did not freeze. Newt, however, had followed the fridge’s example and stood suspended in time with his mouth half open.

“Huh,” Crowley said. He took a loud slurp of cherry Coke.

At the kitchen window, which was open a few inches to let in what had until a moment ago been a cool summer breeze, a fly droned lazily. Another appeared, then another, quickly and impossibly until there was a swarm the size of an armchair wriggling its way inside like dark molten rock over an unsuspecting village.

Crowley turned his head and leaned casually against the counter before the swarm resolved itself into the shape of a demon in too-short trousers. He didn’t like to give anyone the satisfaction of presuming to have impressed him.

“Demon Crowley!”

“Lord Beelzebub.” Crowley sipped at his drink again. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“Your charge,” she said, “how sure are you that she’ _zzz_ going to be one of ours?”

Crowley blinked behind his glasses.[12] A _performance review,_ that’s why Beelzebub had turned up?

“Oh, she’s well on her way to dastardly deeds, your dishonor. Dabbling in the dark arts, she is. Getting to be a proper witch—”

“Witchcraft doesn’t concern us. But what _doezzz,_ Crowley, is how long it’s taking you to tempt her.”

“You can’t rush artistry.”

“But I can rush you.”

Crowley winced. That stung.

“She’s a long way off from kicking the bucket, your disgrace. Humans live longer these days, so if I’m going to do the job I have to do it _thoroughly,_ you see? Takes a long time to corrupt a soul ‘til there’s no hope of everlasting redemption.”

He raised his eyebrows and drank from the soda can to punctuate his point.

“And what have you done—”

Crowley slurped again, loud enough that the Lord of Hell faltered for a second.

“—recently,” Beelzebub continued, “to corrupt her? Recount—”

_Slurp._

“—the deeds of—”

_Sluuurp._

“—the deeds—for Satan’ _zzz_ sake, will you put that down?” she snapped. “Recount your sodding deeds!”

“Deeds.” Crowley smacked his lips. “Right. I let her use YouTube, _unmonitored,_ from when she was nine. That was a big one. Gave her an Ayn Rand novel as a Solstice gift once. She didn’t like it. Oh! She was making biscuits for a bake sale last year, and I cracked all her eggs after she’d started mixing the ingredients so she had to use mayonnaise as a substitute—which, honestly, only makes them softer, people should use it in baking more if you ask me—and then I went to the bake sale and told a few busybody old ladies about the mayonnaise and then nobody wanted to buy the nasty mayonnaise biscuits so she hardly sold any and had to take the rest home and they went stale—”

“What,” Lord Beelzebub buzzed through gritted teeth, “are you doing now, _right now,_ to secure your charge’ _zzz_ soul for our dark master?”

“Right now I’m drinking a cherry Coke.”

Beelzebub turned a sharp about-face as if she couldn’t stand to look at Crowley for another second. She paced a chaotic path around a corner of the kitchen, then stopped abruptly in front of the frozen form of Newton Pulsifer.

“Who i _zzz_ this?”

“Anathema’s boyfriend,” Crowley said dismissively. “Listen, if you just let me explain the longstanding issues with YouTube’s algorithm I think you’ll understand how _truly_ evil—”

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub interrupted with what she probably assumed was an air of gravitas and command. “Here is your task.”

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

“Oh! Gabriel!” Aziraphale smiled nervously, heart still hammering from the shock of thinking he was about to be discorporated via random electrocution. “Popping by already? I thought performance reviews were every… fifty. Years. Haha. I’m doing very well, you know, pulling the girl’s soul to the light—”

“That’s what I came here to talk to you about. It turns out,” Gabriel clapped his hands together and grinned, “we don’t need you to!”

“I’m—I’m sorry?”

“We’re doing some reshuffling Upstairs, Aziraphale, and I have some news I think you’ll be excited to hear. This charge? You’re off the hook!”

“Off… the hook?”

“We don’t need her! Between you and me,” Gabriel lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially, “Hell has been a few points ahead on this one for a _while._ Not that it’s your fault, of course. These things happen. But the upshot is, we’re taking a loss to reallocate resources. You’ll have a nice vacation before receiving your new assignment, and we’ll hand this one over to the HR[13] department right away.”

“Ah.”

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder—quite a bit harder than Aziraphale was prepared for.

“But great work, seriously. I’m sure you would have closed the deal on Annabeth’s soul—” 

“Anathema,” Aziraphale corrected in a tone so hesitant and a volume so low it wouldn’t have registered on the most precise radio telescopes humanity had so far invented.

“—but we no longer have that kind of time, I’m afraid.”

Gabriel smiled and stepped back. Electricity gathered in the air again. A panicked prickle of sweat broke out on Aziraphale’s forehead as he thought of all the torments poor Anathema might be subject to[14] and, if he were honest, more pressingly of how Crowley would gloat about having won.

“Wait!”

Gabriel stopped. His face was stoic and managerial.

“What if,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, “what if we could win her over? One last-ditch effort, would hardly take any time at all. If it doesn’t work, I’ll say no more about it. And…” Aziraphale cast about for any other bargaining chip, “I’ll give up my vacation pay.”

“You have my attention.”

“She has a… _beau._ Keen young man. He’s very—” Aziraphale’s lip twitched. “Anyway. If we could get Anathema to partake in a sacrament, might that be enough?”

“A sacrament.”

“Yes.” He gritted his teeth, pushed away all thoughts but his fondness for the dear girl he’d helped bring up and this _choice_ she was so determined about, and forced himself to say: “Holy matrimony.”

“You want me to do _what.”_

“Infidelity, Crowley. Di _zzz_ loyalty. It’s a day one temptation. The Expense we use as a chew toy for the Hellhounds could do it.”

“I’m… You know I’m normally more, er, big picture.”

“You had better learn to be smallest picture demon in all Nine Circle _zzz_ , and I mean we will need a microscope to see the results of your work, or you _will_ be replaced faster than you can chug that sweet, revolting liquid you pour into your body.” She smiled a tight, vicious smile that made it clear she would have rather expended the energy ripping his heart out of his chest and eating it.

Before Crowley could object—to the demand that he change his entire work process or to the insult against carbonated beverages, he hadn’t decided—Lord Beelzebub dissolved again into a swarm of flies, who all made a simultaneous mad dash for every window except the open one.

A moment later, the Coke can spontaneously crumpled. Soda spurted over Crowley’s hand and down his shirt. A fly landed on his wrist, tempted by the sugar.

“Aw,” he muttered, “bollocks.”

“Must have been shaken up before you opened it,” Newt said now that linear time had resumed. “Here.” He grabbed a tea towel to help Crowley clean off, and accidentally upset a stack of drying cups in the process.

Crowley snapped his sticky fingers. Two tea cups tilting their way to shattering upon the floor suddenly thought better of falling.

“Oh,” Newt laughed, “that was lucky. I thought for sure we were about to have even more of a mess on our hands.”

“We still just might,” Crowley muttered.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 If the reason for this nice and accurate financial decision-making is unknown to you, we humbly suggest you have found yourself reading the wrong fanfiction.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 2 Though Anathema had, at one point or another, been in possession of all three—the latter for the explicit purpose of rendering the former obsolete.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 3 Gardens, villas, children, etc.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 4 This had, in fact, happened for the first time one month previously, when Sgt Shadwell had come around the corner suddenly as Anathema was leaving the bathroom.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 5 It was unclear whether he meant alcohol, or simply a beverage that had come into physical contact with its flavoring.[return to text]  
> 
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> 6 Cloudy.[return to text]  
> 
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> 7 Leafy.[return to text]  
> 
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> 8 Booky.[return to text]  
> 
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> 9 The latter Crowley had somehow managed to succeed in, and if envy were not a bit on the sinnish side Aziraphale would admit to feeling it.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 10 This is untrue.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 11 If you’ve ever nearly choked the life out of a relative at a family gathering—a cousin, for example—before hearing a parent or guardian’s voice echo distantly in your mind, pleading with you to just let it go this year because we don’t know how many Christmases grandma has left and yes I understand Brennan doesn’t know what he’s talking about but sometimes you just have to live and let live and deep down you must admit you do love each other… Anathema’s expression in this moment was likely a mirror of one you yourself have made.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 12 Surprise was near the top of the list of inherently mortifying emotions that Crowley found sunglasses very helpful in hiding. Others that ranked similarly were: confusion, tenderness, indigestion.[return to text]  
> 
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> 13 Holy Retribution.[return to text]  
> 
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> 14 Not that Aziraphale actually knew what became of souls once they Passed On to Their Reward or Otherwise. It had never been his department, nor Crowley’s.[return to text]


End file.
